


Relics of the Dead

by StrayPaper



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:34:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26325733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrayPaper/pseuds/StrayPaper
Summary: "Gotham is a drag queen Bronte fan who daylights as a C.P.A."Inspired by Scott Snyder's "Gotham Is" column during his Batman run.Jason briefly considers Gotham City and the fierce and foolish people who call it home... and who adamantly refuse to get out of the damned way.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Relics of the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> "Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living."  
> \--Emily Bronte in Wuthering Heights

Gotham is a drag queen Bronte fan who daylights as a C.P.A.

She's churning bass beats pulsing through pipes lined with lead. She's the latest designer chemicals twining through corpses of once wealthy warehouses. Vaults for the valueless.

She soaks up blood and rain with equal fervor down black gutters.

She's a mother.

She eats her children.

But she's ruthlessly practical about it, not unkind. Their bones form the foundations for future generations. And Gotham loves everyone she kills. They all contribute, even as cannon fodder.

Gotham City is perpetually aging. Continuously renewing. The Strongest Survive made manifest in technicolor orgies during the worst of bad days.

The 1700's immigrant's whistled tune from the old country set to a steel mill's whine in the neon glow of the very latest in department store fashions.

Gotham is a place where crowd control is a junkie's pipe dream. Gunshots and screams--Crime Alley lullabies. Dismemberment down the street--you're fifteen-minute-famous for doing the Bundy of the Month's dry cleaning. A scrap of silk from the Joker's pop gun goes for five grand on the dark web. Fifteen if you get a picture of the beast himself to prove authenticity. Desperate dead suckers flood the streets with smart phone cameras and empty plastic bags in their pockets. 

Gothamites, as a breed, run toward trouble. Could be money in it. Or a story. A sight. When opportunity knocks, it knocks your socks off. At the very least, they put a nose to the grindstone and wait. Born and bred with a hard candy shell of arrogance that comes with thinking you've seen the worst.

Gotham thrives on surprise.

And on the one day, the best worst day, when she grabs you by the scruff of the neck and shakes the shit out of you with an honest to God shock--Well, that's enough to make a good Gotham citizen stand his ground, dumbstruck, right in the middle of the fucking melee.

Jason watches from his crumbling pillar near Finger Memorial Park as the horde of parademons bleeds through the boom overhead. He waits.

Big Blue is something to see, any time. But especially here, an interloping angel. Anyone who looks at Superman and says they're not impressed lies. Still. In a group of the fiercely fucking homegrown proud, they damned sure aren't gonna show it. Supes could burn down the whole lot of winged menaces swarming the manicured paths with one well-aimed swipe of god-tier red. If only the walking casualties crowding the park would kindly make room. They look up at the bastion of blue salvation ordering them to go. They turn up noses with steel glinting in their eyes and spines.

Diana's a goddess, but deities, real and otherwise, are nothing new in these parts. Hell, Maxie Zeus still has his name on a handful of buildings on South Third. Bought out by subsidiaries, but money ran out before they changed the branding. You know how it goes. So Diana's passionate pleas to move move no one.

The Flash is fast, but this ain't the Central City crowd. When a meta snatches you up in this town, you fight back on principal. They do. The kicked puppy look on his face as he drops his intended rescues and stops is almost worth the price of admission right there.

The click in Jason's comms lands a breathy growl in his ear. Price of admission is right.

"On my three."

The cool assumption in it disgruntles and gratifies in equal measure. Jason angles his grapple and readies as the sour whine of the Batplane burns in behind him.

There. A twitch in the mob rule muscle of the crowd. They know the sound. They start to part.

Because whatever else she is, Gotham is the Bat's. 

Everybody knows that.

Jason's heart beats a thump of pride despite himself.

He shoots his line and jumps.


End file.
